Chapter 8
Cory’s eyes flew open. It was 7:45 a.m., Sunday and his alarm hadn't gone off! Recklessly, he threw on his shorts, socks, shoes, and goalie shirt. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled to himself, crashing around the room. “My first practice and I’m gonna be late!”
He grabbed his soccer ball and cleats, knocking over a glass of water on his nightstand, and stuffed them into his pack. He glanced at the spill, then raced down the hall to the kitchen. At the same moment, Cory's mom walked in from the backyard where she was doing some weeding in the garden.
“And where do you think you are going in such a hurry, young man?” she said, pulling off her gardening gloves and walking into the kitchen. Cory felt a softening of his anger towards her. He’d noticed, since the blowup, his mom was spending more time at home. But, right now, he was in too much of a hurry to answer her question. Itching to rush out the door, precious minutes slipping away, he also knew if he said too much, she might not let him go.
“How about some breakfast?”
“Can’t, Mom.”
He grabbed the orange juice pitcher out of her hand and poured half a glass of orange juice. His mom moved over to the refrigerator.
“Now, sit down.”
“Mom! I don’t have time,” he blurted, almost spitting orange juice on the floor. “Gotta be at Lions Park in ten minutes!” He dashed out the front door yelling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
His mom stood dumbfounded, holding a carton of eggs in her hand. Cory jumped on his bike and raced out of the driveway, fearing the shout that would call him back. It never came. For a brief moment, he wondered why. Then, wonder was tossed aside, replaced by the urgency of an eight o'clock practice.
Cory was out of breath as he bounced his bike onto the curb, then raced down the sidewalk to the park’s only soccer field. On the far end, he could see Tony Banks standing in front of the goal, kicking balls into the net. Cory sped around to the back of the goal and dumped his bike. He quickly put on his cleats and gloves and ran around to the front of the goal.
“You're late, son.” Tony Banks had that same neutral look Cory saw the other day. Cory stopped in his tracks. “I know, Mr. Banks. My alarm didn't go off.” Cory stood, arms dangling at his sides, his green goalie shirt half out, breathing heavily.
"You okay to train?" Banks said, a smile replacing his neutral look. "You look tired."
"I'm ready to go, sir!" Cory said, smiling back.
"Good."
Banks picked up a soccer ball. The ball looked small in his hands.
"Now," he said, studying the ball. "Actions are what tell the true story." He held the ball between them, at chest height. "See this ball? This ball is nothing until you touch it. It has no life until you touch it. Understand?" Cory nodded his head. "And when you touch it, bring life to it, it's what you do with it that shows what kind of goalkeeper you are."
Suddenly, Banks thrust the ball at Cory. It happened so fast, Cory only just moved his hands to instinctively protect himself. The ball hit his chest and bounced to the ground. He ran after it and picked it up, looking back at Banks.
"It's what you do with the ball that counts," he said again with emphasis. "You catch the ball, you control it. You drop the ball, it controls you. Do you understand, Cory?" he said, leveling his eyes at Cory.
"I think so," Cory mumbled.
Banks turned and walked into the curved "D" at the top of the goalie box. "Enough talk, then. Let's see what you got." He threw the bag of balls at Cory's feet. "Place balls at the top corners of the box," he instructed. "Also, put one here . . . . and here." He pointed to where the "D" connected to the goalie box. When Cory was done, Banks instructed him to stand on the goalie line between the two goal posts. As Cory looked out from his spot, he could see all the balls evenly spaced around the edge of the rectangular goalie box. Confused, he looked at Banks for an explanation.
"When I say "GO!" sprint to the first ball. Throw your body down as a barrier between ball and goal." Banks looked at Cory. "Understand?"
"I think so," answered Cory, not really sure.
"Wrap your body around the ball. Leave the ball, then sprint back to the starting point, touch the ground, and go to the next ball." He pointed to each ball in turn all the way around the box.
"Ready?" Banks suddenly called. "GO!"
Cory jumped at the command. He ran to the first ball. As he went down, his foot stubbed the ground and he landed on top of the ball, his hip hitting it and bouncing him onto his side.
"Get up! Move!" shouted Banks.
He suddenly sounded like a drill sergeant. It shocked Cory so much he jumped up and ran back to the starting spot and touched the ground. He quickly forgot about the pain in his hip. Cory sprinted around the goalie box, falling on his side, then curling around each ball, improving his technique with each one. By the time he touched the ground at the end of the drill, he was exhausted. On the grass inside the goal mouth, Cory collapsed and fought for breath.
"You're too slow when sprinting to the ball," Banks cautioned. "A goalie must be quick, both in mind and body."
The boy looked up at the man, his face beaded with sweat. Cory was one of the fastest boys on the soccer team. And this man was telling him he was too slow?
"Your mind is slowing your body down," Banks said, as if reading Cory's thoughts. "You must be quicker. Think quicker. You must will your body to move quickly. Like lightning!" A few moments of silence, then, "Enough rest!"
Cory snapped out of his haze, grunted and got up. His muscles complained but he stood in ready position.
"This time," Banks began. "Take short, choppy steps. Try to turn your legs over quicker." Banks moved his hands in small circles. "And, when you block the ball with your body, stretch out all the way, arms above your head as you hit the ground on your side. Picture yourself like a big board thrown down across the front of the ball to block it. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," answered Cory. This is going to hurt, he thought.
"GO!"
Cory shortened his steps and felt more sure of his balance as he ran to the ball. He still threw his body down awkwardly, but his technique was improving. Getting better, smoother. He rounded the goalie box and, after throwing himself down in front of the last ball, staggered back to the starting point. He had run out of steam halfway to the last ball.
"Much better." Banks smiled. At least Cory thought so, as he gazed up from his now familiar spot on the grass. Sweat was seeping into his eyes, stinging them. "We will work on that again later." Banks walked to the nearest ball and picked it up. "A two-minute rest, then we continue."
Cory nodded and placed his forehead on the grass to catch his breath.
The second technique Cory learned was correct diving. He started on his knees falling left and right to balls thrown by Banks. The man corrected Cory's hand positioning, how his forearm should cushion him when he landed, how to make a window to see the ball, and the right body roll when going down. It was all new to Cory. But he loved it.
Later in the hour, Cory dove left and right over a cone. This was difficult because he had to land hard. If he did not hit correctly, it hurt or the ball bounced out of his grasp.
Always, Banks pushed. When Cory slowed down, was tired, Banks encouraged and pushed. At first, it seemed harsh the way Banks barked at him. Yet Cory soon adjusted and realized it was the type of coaching that made him feel pride in what he was learning.
Banks talked about being important and special. A goalkeeper is like no other player on the field, he said. A goalkeeper can use his hands. It's a position where confidence rules and being timid loses. He talked about being BIG and intimidating in goal. Showing other players that you're boss of the goal area.
"Tough in mind and body," he said over and over. "When your body gives out, your mind takes over. Your mind must be sharp. Focused. Ready to pounce on any
ball that comes into your area!"
Cory had never been coached like this before. Actually, Cory had never been coached at all. Instead, he usually spent time practicing punts in a corner of the practice field. Before he met Tony Banks, Cory had no idea of the importance of his position.
On the ground resting, legs extended out, arms behind him propping up his exhausted body, Cory caught his breath. The fast-paced practice was still whirring in his ears. His body ached from head to toe. He had never felt this tired, even from Quinn's famous sprints. He looked up. Banks looked satisfied.
"Practice is over for today," Banks said, beginning to collect the scattered balls. "You showed hustle, son. And hard work." He paused from putting balls in the bag. "I'll see you next Sunday." Banks continued to pick up the balls. Cory realized he should be helping and jumped up to get the last ball. He handed it to Banks.
"Thanks, Mr. Banks."
Banks smiled. "You're welcome."